Art Patton and three San Francisco police officers meet us at the gate at SFO. Art isn't taking any chances. He's brought Rita Roberts with him. As soon as we're off the plane, he turns to Rita's camera and demands that we release Russo.
Roosevelt looks at him. "Mr. Russo accompanied us voluntarily from the Bahamas."
"Then he's free to go?"
"After he's answered some questions."
Patton scowls. "I'm instructing him not to answer any questions until I've spoken to him."
"Fine," Roosevelt says. "You can accompany us to the Hall, where you can talk in the comfort of one of our consultation rooms."
I haven't ridden in a paddy wagon in years. My head is throbbing as Roosevelt, Russo, Patton and I sit in silence in the back of a van, with two other officers. Patton looks at Roosevelt. "You know," he says with a sneer, "he doesn't have to talk to you guys."
Roosevelt yawns. "I know. I'm sure he has nothing to hide."
"You got that right," Russo snaps.
Patton holds up his hands. "Vince, we'll talk about this when we get there. I don't want you to say anything right now, understood?"
Russo pouts. "Understood."
"Are you going to charge him?" I ask Skipper as we sit in a consultation room down the corridor from where Patton has been meeting with Russo for the last hour. Roosevelt drinks coffee. Marcus Banks is there too, sitting quietly and drinking a Sprite. Bill McNulty studies the sports section in the Chronicle.
"With what?" Skipper asks. "It isn't a crime to park your car at the Golden Gate Bridge. Last time I looked, it isn't a crime not to show up for a closing. It's still legal to travel to the Bahamas."
"How about murder?"
Roosevelt looks up. "How about murder, Skipper?" he repeats.
"On what basis? There's no evidence pointing toward Russo."
"Yes, there is," I reply. "He was at the scene. He faked his own suicide. He fled the country. He was traveling under an alias. What else do you want?"
"Where's the motive?" Skipper asks.
"He didn't want the deal to close. He had to create a diversion to get out of the country."
Skipper is skeptical. "If he didn't want the deal to close, he could have just said so. He didn't have to kill two people. Besides, there isn't a single shred of evidence he pulled the trigger. We can put him at the scene, but we can't tie him to the murder weapon."
I search for a retort. He's probably right. There isn't any physical evidence to convict Russo. I look at Roosevelt. "I need him to testify," I say. "You can't let him leave the country again. I'll put him on the stand on Monday."
There's a knock on the door. A uniformed deputy reports that Patton and Russo want to talk. "Mike," Roosevelt says, "I have to ask you to wait here. I'll tell them you want to speak to them."
"I understand."
I sit in the cramped gray consultation room by myself in the middle of the night. The lights are dimmed. The Hall has an eerie, deafening quiet at this hour. My body is overwhelmed by a combination of fatigue and jet lag. I sit in never-never land—not quite asleep, but certainly not awake.
My mind starts playing tricks on me. I see Grace's face. I'm at the Hall of Justice in the middle of the night. I should be home taking care of her.
I hear footsteps in the hallway and I see a uniformed policeman walk by. I think of my dad. So proud of his uniform. So proud he put the bad guys away. A good cop. He did what he thought was right. Hard to think he's been gone for five years. So little time to know his first grandchild, Grace. He was so proud of her. And she'll never remember him. Sometimes, I think I never really knew him. Sometimes I think I knew him too well. He was a good dad, but somewhat distant. I think of my brother Tommy, who went to war to please him. And Pete, who became a cop to show him. And for a brief moment, I think of myself. I became a defense attorney to spite him. I think of my sister, Mary, who pleaded with him to take early retirement, just so she could stop worrying about him.
I think of my mom, who raised four kids on a cop's salary. How she'd stay up every night, waiting for him to come home. How she wouldn't sleep until she heard his car door slam. How she counted the days until his retirement. And how she had to nurse him when they discovered the cancer only a few weeks later. Five years of caring for him through all that pain. She worried about all of us. Now she lives half her life in a world of confusion that she doesn't understand and I can't imagine.
I think about Rosie, the only woman I've ever truly loved. And our mutual realization that we're utterly incapable of living together. I feel the pain of our separation all over again. I wonder whether I'll ever find the same kind of love again. I hope I'll never feel the pain again.
I worry about Grace. I wonder where she'll be in another ten years. Or another twenty years, for that matter.
I think about my friend and client Joel. I think about his less-than-perfect marriage. I think about his relationship with his father, and how it isn't all that different from my relationship with mine. I wonder whether he'll have a chance to repair the damage to his life that's been inflicted on him—and that he's inflicted upon himself.
I think about our special circumstances. It may be the fatigue or it may be the stress. Or it may be both. I realize I'm crying. And I wonder if it's all worth it.
"Mike?" Roosevelt stands in the doorway of the consultation room, his hands in his pockets.
"Huh? Sorry, Roosevelt. I must have dozed off for a few minutes."
"Patton and Russo want to talk to you."
"Are you going to arrest him?"
"No."
"Will he testify?"
"I think so."
"Keep it under your hat, Roosevelt."
"I will." He pauses. "I can't make the same promise for the DA."
"I understand." I look at him. "Roosevelt?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks."
52
"DID YOU HAVE A NICE TRIP?"
"In an unexpected twist, local financier Vincent Russo Jr. was located in the Bahamas. He will be called to testify at the murder trial of Joel Mark Friedman later today."
—KCBS news radio. Monday, April 13. 6:30 a.m.
The traffic on Bryant is terrible on Monday morning. The minicams are lined up two-deep. Word got out about Vince Russo's resurrection. The gallery is packed.
"The defense calls Vincent Russo Jr."
Judge Chen watches as Russo slithers into the courtroom in his dark blue suit. Russo is sworn in. He takes the stand. He's sweating. He gulps water from a Styrofoam cup. I can smell his aftershave. His diamond ring gleams. His cufflinks look like gold golf balls.
Judge Chen says, "We weren't sure we were going to see you, Mr. Russo."
He glances at the clock. "I've been out of town."
"You may proceed, Mr. Daley," she says to me.
"May we approach the witness, Your Honor?" I want to get right in his face.
"Yes, Mr. Daley."
I button my jacket as I walk from the lectern toward Russo. I position myself directly in front of him and I turn slightly so the jury can see his facial expressions and mine. "Mr. Russo," I begin, "you were in the Simpson and Gates offices on December thirtieth, were you not?"
His slitty eyes wander. "Yes."
"And you were working on an important deal involving the sale of your company, right?"
"Yes."
"And the sale was supposed to close on the morning of December thirty-first, right?"
"Objection, Your Honor. He's leading the witness."
Indeed I am. "Request permission to treat this witness as hostile."
Judge Chen says, "All right, Mr. Daley."
"Thank you." It's okay to lead hostile witnesses. I turn back to Russo. "The deal didn't close, did it, Mr. Russo?"
"No, it didn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't want it to. I didn't want Continental Capital Corporation to take over my father's company. It would have been disrespectful to his memory." He g
lares at me. "It didn't close because I said so." So there.
"So, Mr. Russo, instead of showing up for the closing, what did you do?"
"I decided to take a little vacation. Most recently, I was in the Bahamas."
I look at the jury and I grin sarcastically. "Did you have a nice trip?"
Skipper stands up, but doesn't say anything.
"As a matter of fact, I did," Russo replies. "Right up until this weekend when you insisted that I return to San Francisco." His expression is long-suffering.
All right, asshole. "Mr. Russo," I say, "let's talk about the night of December thirtieth."
Victim face again. "Whatever you'd like, Mr. Daley."
"The negotiations went into the night on December thirtieth?"
"Yes."
"In fact, you finished negotiations by about nine o'clock that night?"
"That's true." He tries to sound nonchalant.
"And then you went out for dinner with Mr. Holmes, didn't you?"
"Yes. We went to Tadich Grill. I'd recommend it."
"And you returned to the office around eleven-fifteen?"
"Yes."
"And everything was ready to go by about twelve-thirty?"
"Yep. Everything." He takes another swallow of water.
"You had a meeting with Mr. Holmes around twelve-thirty, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"What did you talk about with Mr. Holmes?"
"A lot of things. Our plans for New Year's. Our kids. His latest divorce."
"Did you talk about the deal?"
He turns his head at a slight angle. "Yes. I told him I wasn't going to proceed with the closing. I decided I would keep my company or take my chances in bankruptcy."
"Or go to the Bahamas. How did Mr. Holmes react when you told him?"
"He was pissed off. He said I should sell the company. And he told me if the deal didn't close, Simpson and Gates was going to go bankrupt." He smirks. "Of course, you can't run a successful business worrying about whether your lawyers are going to be able to pay their bills."
Or an unsuccessful business like yours, Vince.
"Mr. Russo, were you aware Mr. Holmes was going to receive a big bonus?"
"Yep. Three million bucks." The corners of his mouth turn up slightly.
"And you realize, of course, that by pulling the plug, Mr. Holmes was going to lose his bonus."
"Like I said, you can't spend your life worrying about how much money your lawyer makes."
Legitimate point.
"Mr. Russo, did Mr. Holmes look upset when you told him you weren't going to close?"
"Objection. State of mind."
"Your Honor, I'm just asking for an observation of Mr. Holmes's appearance."
"Overruled."
"Yes, he was very upset. Really honked off, if you know what I mean."
I know what you mean. "Was he upset about his divorce?"
"No, he wasn't."
Shit. I should have left well enough alone.
"Actually," he continues, "he was far more upset about the fact that his girlfriend dumped him."
Hello? "Really? And would that girlfriend have been Diana Kennedy?"
He chuckles. "No, Mr. Daley. It wouldn't. His relationship with Ms. Kennedy was long over. Old and cold. Dead as a doorknob."
We get the idea.
He looks at the jury. "He was upset because his new girlfriend dumped him."
I look frantically at Rosie. I'm going to have to break the cardinal rule of cross-examination and ask a question for which I don't know the answer. "Mr. Russo, do you know the name of this new girlfriend?"
"No. He wouldn't tell me. It was his little secret. He said it was somebody we knew. He said he'd tell me when the time was right. He never did."
"Mr. Russo, did Mr. Holmes give any other indications that he may have been upset that night?"
"Objection. State of mind."
"Overruled."
"Mr. Daley," he says, "are you asking me if he was suicidal?"
"In a word, yes."
"The answer, in a word, is maybe. He was very upset about the deal. He was very upset about losing the money. And he was particularly upset about his girlfriend. But he wasn't that upset."
I had it coming. "Mr. Russo, what time did you leave Mr. Holmes's office?"
"Around one o'clock."
"Did you see Diana Kennedy before you left?"
"No."
"And Mr. Holmes was still alive when you left?"
"Very much so."
"So, Mr. Russo, just so we're straight on this, you didn't happen to kill Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy that night, did you?"
"Of course not. Bob was still alive when I left him. I didn't see Diana."
"And you didn't see anybody else kill them, did you?"
"Nope."
"Did you hear any gunshots?"
"Nope."
"What time did you leave the building?"
"Around one-forty-five."
"After you left the Simpson and Gates office, you abandoned your car at the Vista Point at the Golden Gate Bridge, right?"
"I intended to retrieve it the next day." He looks up. "I was too tired to drive."
Right. "And you left your wallet in the car, didn't you?"
"I forgot it."
"And your keys."
"I forgot them, too."
"And you decided to leave the country."
"It isn't a crime to go on vacation, Mr. Daley."
"No, it isn't, Mr. Russo," I agree. "And where did you go?"
"First, I went to New Zealand. Then Thailand and Greece. Then the Bahamas."
"Where you were checked into a very fancy hotel under an assumed name."
"Yes. I always travel under an assumed name. I don't like to draw attention to myself. Wealthy Americans are often targets in other parts of the world."
"Mr. Russo, you realize that reasonable people might interpret your actions as an attempt by a desperate man to flee the scene of a crime?"
"Objection."
"Sustained."
"Come on, Mr. Russo. Let's put our cards on the table. Let's tell the truth today, for once. You killed Bob Holmes and Diana Kennedy, didn't you?"
He shakes his head. "No, I didn't."
"And you fled the country."
"No, I didn't."
"And you went to the Bahamas to collect a bunch of money that you kept hidden there."
"That's not true."
"Your Honor," Skipper interrupts. "Is this harassment of Mr. Russo really necessary?"
"Your Honor," I say, "this man is lying. It's evident to everyone in this room that Mr. Russo killed Mr. Holmes and Ms. Kennedy and fled the country."
"Move to strike, Your Honor. Mr. Daley is out of order."
"Sustained. The jury will disregard Mr. Daley's last remarks." She stares at me. "Sidebar."
We approach the bench. She puts her hand over her microphone. "Mr. Daley," she says sharply, "if you're trying to get a mistrial, you'll be disappointed. Now finish your examination."
We return to our places. Judge Chen looks at me. "Anything else for this witness, Mr. Daley?"
I see Rosie close her eyes. "No further questions."
She looks at Skipper. "Cross-exam, Mr. Gates?"
"No, Your Honor."
She pounds her gavel. "Ten-minute recess."
Joel isn't overjoyed with my direct examination of Russo. "I thought you were going to nail him," he says.
"Did you think he was going to break down on the stand and confess?"
"Maybe."
"This isn't an episode of fucking Perry Mason," I snap. I catch myself. "I'm sorry. I gave it a shot. It was worth a try, but it's unrealistic to think that Russo is going to do anything but lie. He was better-coached than I thought. And he held up better than I thought he would."
"I want to take the stand," Joel says firmly.
"We'll talk about it after Patton testifies."
53
"WHAT DO
ES THE MANAGING PARTNER DO, MR. PATTON?"
"The managing partner of a major law firm is like the chairman of the board of a Fortune 500 company. Every big business needs leadership. And you have to have a vision."
—Arthur Patton. San Francisco Legal Journal. MONDAY, APRIL 13.
"You are the managing partner of the Simpson and Gates firm, aren't you, Mr. Patton?"
"Yes I am." After lunch, Arthur Patton has squeezed himself into the uncomfortable wooden chair in the witness box. He's dressed carefully today. The red suspenders are at home. His chins jiggle. His eyebrows form a straight line right above the tiny wire-rim glasses that sit against the bulbous nose and mask the tiny eyes.
"What does the managing partner do, Mr. Patton?"
He purses his dry, thin lips. "The managing partner of a major law firm is like the chairman of the board of a Fortune 500 company. Every big business needs leadership. And you have to have a vision."
"Your vision seems to have led the firm into bankruptcy, Mr. Patton."
"It was merely a protective filing," he assures me. "The firm continues to operate and will remain fully functional while we are sorting out our obligations to our creditors."
I note that the accountant doesn't seem convinced. It's time to talk about something Art understands: money. "Mr. Patton, you are aware that the firm maintained a key-man life insurance policy on Mr. Holmes, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"And you knew the firm had a twenty-million-dollar policy on the life of Mr. Holmes?"
"Of course."
I face the jury. "And you knew, of course, that the policy had a so-called suicide clause, right?"
This is ticklish. If he admits he knew about the suicide clause, he admits the firm stood to gain twenty million dollars if he can show Joel killed Bob and Diana. It gives him incentive to set Joel up. If he says he didn't know, I'll have the pleasure of chastising him in open court for not having read the policy carefully—very unlawyerlike for an attorney of his stature.
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